Death In the Mirror
by tiedwithblackribbon
Summary: Short One-shot.Erik's POV. "I never kept mirrors in my home... I decided early on that I didn't need it's constant reminder that I was a monster and rightfully so, as I had been forced my whole life to accept what I could never change."


I never kept mirrors in my home.

I decided early on that I didn't need it's constant reminder that I was a monster and rightfully so, as I had been forced my whole life to accept what I could never change. Even as a very small child I was placed in front of it's glass surface as punishment by my cruel mother, my reflection a threat to me even when sin was never a concept in my puerile mind. I knew then that other's would look upon me and treat me as a sin as well. I would use my face throughout my whole life to instill fear and terror in the innocent minded, using it's twisted features to my advantage to get what I wanted out of this miserable life. It was only a matter of time until my cursed skin would scar me further, deeper... until it covered my soul and made my whole being hideous to behold.

What a paradox it had been to use the very thing I loathed more than my face to lure the most beautiful of creatures into my arms without any fleeting thought that it would all end in disaster. It is hard to see the consequences to actions for which your heart fuels, passion and desire a wicked thing indeed when they drive a man like me to desperate measures. With that same cold glass, lifeless but holding so much pain, I made it anew with a pulse, for when I saw through _her_ mirror...I was alive.

No, her mirror did not harbor my infectious visage that could not even escape my dreams. It was a window into normalcy, into beauty. And when I saw her, flushed and exerted, fresh from the stage each night my heart would leap painfully beneath my ribs reminding me...I was not a ghost. I was flesh and blood. And though my disfigured features deemed me otherwise I was indeed a man...alive and wanting as any other.

And so ...with trepidation and some unwanted guilt and regret stabbing me I forged my only beauty, my angel's voice, coaxing her to the mirror's razor edge, dangerous for us both, opening it and drawing her blind into the darkness. She was afraid...so afraid. I always did forget what a childish little girl she really was, not yet grown into a strong woman.

Into my home I led her cautiously, preparing in my mind the confession I had never wished to reveal. She cried many tears that night as I knelt at her feet, my secrets spiking my tongue at each of her realizations that I wasn't her angel. I was the feared Opera Ghost! My heart ached at the sight of her so distraught. My innocent girl. And though I had expected guilt to flood my senses I did not expect the anger that rose in me at her rejection. Had I not prepared myself for that? Did I really believe she would forgive and forget, falling into my arms?

With the calm reserve I somehow attained through my rage I trusted her enough to be in my home, promising I would return her in five days. It wasn't enough, no...not for my little Christine. A fierce shriek and a blast of chilled air about my naked face proved my mask had been ripped away, it's victim shrinking into the corner of the room, her sobs filling the void of silence. I would never let her go after that.

My anger overcame my guilt and shock, using my face once again to hurt and punish her just as I had to endure when I was a child. I grasped her wrists violently, bringing her hands up so that her nails could dig into my flesh. Yes, let her know that it was not another mask that she could peel away!

Stealing away to my own haven where my coffin lay, I searched frantically for my vials and syringes. There was only one way to keep the pain at bay. With one injection of the sweet bliss that was morphine I was taken to another world...a world where I was beautiful and Christine Daae was mine.

After a few days I conceded to taking her above for rehearsals, not wanting to waste the precious work I had made of her voice. She gladly obliged, promising she would return to me. The deceitful girl! I knew from the look in those bright blue eyes that she was lying. I knew of her plans to elope with the Victome de Chagny. I waited patiently after rehearsals, like a predator awaiting his prey, ready to strike at the exact moment to stun and attack. It was so easy to capture my little song bird, the child fainting in my arms almost immediately as my gloved hand clasped over her mouth in the darkened foyer.

At last I had her back where she belonged, in my home, unconscious and sleeping on my fine chaise lounge. When she awoke I found her staring at me with absolute horror, trembling violently with the realization of where she was. It was only then that I laid a damning ultimatum at her feet, the child falling to her knees in a heap of sobs, begging and pleading for me not to kill her beloved. She would consent to be mine. I was tired of playing make-believe in one of her faerie tales. I was exhausted of her tears and her blatant fear tugging at my heartstrings. No, I could not let her go. Not now.

In an angry rage I grasped her upper arms, bringing her up from the floor to stand into my direct gaze. I knew I was bruising her precious, white skin...not caring as she whimpered and cried out in pain. I threw her into her room, locking the heavy bolt that would hold her captive under my control once again. Ignoring her cries and loud banging on the door, I stole away to my own captivity, my own cage surrounding myself with music and drowning out the sound of her screaming.

Death. It is strange how it's presence can turn the most mundane of objects into a treasure. Perhaps it is a mindset that a belonging of someone deceased still holds their energy, their spirit. I never experienced such a notion...not until Christine. Never in my wildest, most terrifying dreams would I think that my little angel would choose death over me.

When I stopped my musical outburst after what seemed like hours of rage poured into notes and measures I was welcomed with the most unnerving sound...silence. All I could imagine were those sad blue eyes looking back at me, my selfish glance only reflecting my own desire in those deep pools. I would never see them again.

Frantically I reached for my keys, shouting her name in the process. The keys fumbled in my trembling hands and finally with a loud clanging of the bolt unlocked I opened the door. The image before me would never leave my mind for as long as I lived. Not even under the spell of narcotics and drink could it erase what I had done.

My beautiful, beautiful girl...All I can remember is thinking how white she was...so perfectly white like a doll. She lay in her own blood, wrists open and seeping freely. Crimson stained that perfect skin and I continued my shouting, holding her lifeless form in my arms. I screamed and cried over her cold body for what seemed like ages.

What horror and unimaginable fear had I let this girl be consumed with? My shock and denial in what was happening faded into anger. How dare she! How dare she end her own life instead of being my bride! I was inconsolable, enraged...again I was the monster. I destroyed my home, shredding music I had composed for her. My anger had surpassed my grief and when I finally broke down I fell to the floor next to her and crawled to her little body, caressing over dark hair now a stark contrast to her skin.

Beside me was something shining in the candlelight, familiar but just as lifeless as she. A broken piece of mirror, the very tool she had used to smite me with her death. I touched it, picked it up from the floor. Thoughts of my own demise filtered through my sadness, bringing notions of ending my life as well. Perhaps I could have her in death. But I wouldn't. I didn't deserve the same glorious afterlife as her if there was such a thing. Christine believed in angels and heaven while I was only meant for hell.

A year had passed and I never had opened her room after that night. I buried her outside our home, on the little beach she was fond of. I went to her grave sometimes twice a day, bringing fresh flowers. It didn't seem real, even after so many months of not hearing her beautiful voice. I had consumed myself during that year with drink and opiates, sometimes together, putting myself in a dreamless sleep or at least in a stupor where I could forget.

On one particular night in my undeniable languor I noticed how silent the house really was. It needed music to fill it again, it needed her angelic tones and bright smile to warm it. I picked up my violin. Christine had enjoyed my playing when times were happy between us...As I began to play my fingers quickly adapted to the strings, drawing forth a heavenly meoldy...the closest I could ever be to my angel.

Then, in the midst of my playing, I heard a sound.

It was the most delightful sound! My Christine!

My disbelief struck my heart as fear and it pounded wildly in my rib cage, throwing the instrument down to listen again. Nothing. A chill struck my body and even in it's weakened state I shivered, listening intently.

I ventured out into the narrow hall, turning hesitantly to the closed door of Christine's room. Drawing keys out of my pocket I unlocked the door, the loud click of the mechanisms inside providing another chill. Immediately, as I opened her door, a charged air hit my naked face.

What had I been hoping for? After a year I was back in this room and for what? I quickly lit the few candles on her vanity, casting a warm glow about the dark room. Her bed, linens neatly in place and starch white, rested in perfection as if no one had ever slept there. But I knew she had. Those sheets had more than once absorbed her warmth.

My heart thudded painfully, my hand lowered to brush fingertips over the soft quilts that had once touched her skin. I closed my eyes, tears threatening as I bent to sit at the edge of the mattress. I had sat in this spot on many a night, eyes gazing over a sleeping Christine. I had been there when she awoke from nightmares! I had been there to soothe her back to a dream state with my song! Me! It warmed my heart to remember, but also turned my blood cold. I...I had been the cause of this. I hadn't thought about the night she had died, blocking it systematically from my psyche, locking it away so I'd never have to _feel._ That all was too late now as I quickly sobered and was reminded why I never opened her room.

I left the bedside, refusing to look down at stained carpets, guiding myself listless and eerily calm to her vanity. It did not have a mirror. I had provided her with a small hand mirror, the same she had broken to end her young life.

I opened drawers.. papers and quills, cheap costume jewelry...and the broken piece of glass itself. Wrapped around fine porcelain was my reflection in it's marred edges. I grazed my fingers over it's handle, imagining I could still touch what she had graced with her hand. I gazed into the mirror, it's glass sharp and cracked. My heart stopped.

There with my reflection was Christine...as if she were standing behind me!

I heaved the mirror to the wall, shattering it's glass and porcelain everywhere, turning around with a ferocity to look behind, finding nothing but an empty room. My breath heaved in my chest, my heart nearly imploding from the frightening apparition I had witnessed.

"Christine..." I whispered into the darkened room and I was welcomed with that same light, fluttering laughter of hers that was undeniable that burned my ears. In my fear I fled the room, closing the door with a slam, retreating to my large den where a fire cracked with it's own ferocity. Chills went beyond my skin, seeping into bone. Shaking violently I began to sob, murmuring her name. Was this my punishment until I too succumbed to death? God how I had loved her!

It didn't take me long to reach for my vials of laudanum, injecting the sweet poison into my veins and lying in my coffin to sleep and _forget_. But even with drugs I couldn't unlade her sweet image away. I knew what I could do...what I had to do.

Beneath the heavy black curtains that hung in my music room was a closet of sorts, things I had stored away never hoping to resurface for my own sake. These things were treasures from my childhood, my mother's few belongings that I had collected and one item in particular.

This item was one that I had loathed for years ever since I could stand and look into it. It was used as a punishment, my mirror. And to think that it would punish me throughout my whole life! I brought it out and drew off it's dust cloth, the wood frame around it's oval shape as if it were new. I was afraid again, little Erik frightened of his own reflection...to look into it and see my true self...to see my Christine again. But that is why I had taken it out of the dark!

Perhaps the mirror didn't have to be a punishment any longer...perhaps it could bring good and provide love again. For if Christine's sweet face was there to look upon, the monster also inside could be the fantasy, the untrue visage. Yes, the mirror was a treasure to me now...I couldn't shatter my past from it's wake...not when Christine was here with me again.


End file.
